


The Ignorance of Knowledge

by rei_c



Series: Knowledge 'Verse [13]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drug Addiction, Episode: s02e18 Jones, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-14
Updated: 2007-12-14
Packaged: 2020-09-02 09:54:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20274013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: Reid's lost. He goes to see Ethan the night before the team is due to leave New Orleans and ends up talking to a man called Sam.





	The Ignorance of Knowledge

Reid comes back to the bar once they’ve wrapped up the case. Ethan’s on stage, playing, and Reid lingers at the bar for a few minutes before ordering a drink and sitting on one of the bar-stools. He closes his eyes for a moment, sipping at his brandy, and listens to the music. 

He’s calm, unwinding, relaxing in the here-and-now, then the sudden thrum of _need_ sings through his veins. Reid clenches his jaw, tries to ride it out, and thinks about the vials in his satchel. It wouldn’t be difficult to find the restroom, close himself in a stall and shoot up, probably wouldn’t take long. No one here knows him, no one would care, and he’s halfway off the stool before he sits back down, attempts to focus on the music again, the fact that this case is done, that he’s come to some conclusions down here in New Orleans. 

Another sip of brandy, the smell filters down his nostrils. He can’t stop himself from analysing it, running the history through his mind, branching out into every connection he can draw. The work of seconds, thoughts skipping lightly from distilled wine to the hip-hop culture, statistics and EU trade agreements and one of the serial killers referenced in his first profiling textbook. 

Reid blinks as Ethan changes from the recognisable jazz riffs of Count Basie to something more bluesy, Dr. John, maybe; music was never Reid’s forte, just like everything else artistic, creative, but he appreciates the history, the long-reaching effects. 

It shakes him out of a stupor, takes him from dry-throated need to something more introspective, helped along by the alcohol, the plush surroundings of the bar, the night off before they all fly back to headquarters in the morning. 

He looks around, studying details he merely glanced over before: the edges of the bartender’s tattoo peeking out from under the shirt collar, the modest crowd in front of the stage, the man leaning against the wall, the plants leading outside, the open door. Only in New Orleans and, even then, only in the French Quarter; he doesn’t want to think about how much it must cost to keep the temperature comfortable inside and still leave the doors open to spill music and smells outdoors.

Ethan finishes with a diminuendo and people applaud. Reid does as well and when his friend heads for the bar, Reid gestures for the bartender to get a drink for Ethan. 

“Thanks,” Ethan says, tossing back a shot before picking up the beer, saluting Reid before swallowing. “Didn’t expect to see you back here.” 

“We’re leaving tomorrow morning,” Reid says. 

Ethan smiles, says, “This morning,” nodding at Reid’s watch. Reid grimaces, Ethan’s smile gets bigger, and the two of them sit at the bar for five minutes without talking. 

It reminds Reid of college, of how it used to be for him and Ethan: never needing to fill the silence with words, preferring the quiet to anything else, feeling comforted by the mere presence of one another. It sends a sharp pang through his chest that he hasn’t made much effort to keep in touch with Ethan, especially after they’d been so close. To just let his friend go without much more than a handshake and sad eyes, it makes Reid feel ashamed. 

“How long will you stay in New Orleans?” Reid asks, finally, looking at Ethan. 

Ethan smiles into his beer, but Reid can tell, _knows_, that it isn’t so much a smile as a grimace turned the wrong way ‘round. “It doesn’t feel like I am in New Orleans, not since Katrina,” Ethan replies. “But I’ll stay here until I get tired of it. The south’s good for me, Reid. The only way I’ll go is east or west, even then not too far.” He sighs, says, “People up north don’t get the blues, not the way they used to, and everyone here’s feeling ‘em all the time. Might as well make sure they know they aren’t alone.” 

There’s a lot in that answer, a lot Reid has to think about. 

He doesn’t realise that his hands are shaking until Ethan leans over and knocks his shoulder against Reid’s. There’s an apology on Reid’s lips, but Ethan shakes his head, stays close. 

"You see him?" Ethan asks, pointing at a guy across the club, leaning against the wall. Reid jumps, fished out of his thoughts, and follows Ethan’s finger. He scans the guy Ethan’s singled out, compares how he looks now to his scan of the room earlier: the guy appears just as relaxed now as he was then, is watching the people in front of the stage where, Reid thinks, he was watching Ethan before. He seems comfortable, at ease, and Reid guesses he belongs here as much as any one person can. 

Reid looks back at Ethan, shrugs. 

"You should go over, say hello." Ethan’s not smiling, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes that Reid remembers all too well. 

"Why?" Reid asks, looking back at the guy. 

Ethan smiles, stands up, replies, "Because Sam Winchester's one of the good guys, Reid, just like his partner. There are worse people to talk to. At the very least, he’ll be good for a conversation. And call me sometime," he adds, sliding over a napkin with his number scrawled on thin cotton. Ethan pauses, wipes condensation off of his beer bottle, and looks Reid full in the eyes. “It’s been good to see you. Maybe.” 

“Yeah,” Reid says, soft, when Ethan trails off. He takes in Ethan’s face, re-commits it to memory, and vows he won’t go so long again. 

\--

When Ethan goes back on stage, Reid gets a refill, takes his snifter and sits down in one of the armchairs. He watches Ethan’s hands dance over the keyboard and wonders what the music might sound like on a real piano. Deeper, he thinks, and richer, maybe too much to take. 

Ten minutes into the set, someone sits down next to him and Reid turns to see the man that Ethan had pointed out before, Sam Winchester. He’s studying Reid so Reid studies him back, takes in the shaggy hair, the tip-tilted fox eyes, the tattoos covering every inch of skin from the wrists to the rolled-up sleeves of a classic button-down, jeans and work boots that have seen better days, spattered in mud and cut grass. 

“Sam Winchester,” the guy says, holding out one hand. “Ethan pointed me out to you earlier, if I’m not mistaken?” 

Sam’s voice is calm, even, but there are shades of something underneath the half-question, something that brings back the simmering want inside of Reid’s skin, thrumming just under the surface. 

Reid shivers, says, “Spencer Reid,” and takes Sam’s hand, shakes. Sam has a firm grip, the pads of his fingertips are callused, and he’s wearing a heavy silver ring that’s cold against Reid’s skin, leather bracelets that slide against Reid when they disentangle. 

“Should I ask or let you bring it up when you feel like it?” Sam’s smiling but it’s friendly and familiar, a look Reid sees every time J.J. turns plaintive eyes on a witness to comfort them at the same time she’s trying to string out answers.

Reid opens his mouth, then closes it again, glances at Ethan. 

“He’s a fantastic player,” Sam says. Reid looks back at the man, can’t place the accent; there are hints of the south’s elongated drawl, California’s vowels, the Midwest’s rhythms. It’s a little disconcerting, more fascinating than anything. “We were lucky he decided to come back after the hurricane.” 

“You were here for that?” Reid asks, mouth moving faster than his mind for once. “You _stayed_?” 

A muscle in Sam’s cheek clenches, and he lays a heavy gaze on Reid before looking past Reid at the stage. “As soon as we heard Katrina was heading for the city, we came back. There are things here that needed to be protected.”

Reid tilts his head, asks, “We?” 

“My partner,” Sam says, leaning back in his chair, crossing his legs. The casual dress, it doesn’t fit in this place, but no one’s said anything. In fact, the bartender and wait-staff all seem to keep one eye on Sam, as if they’ll leap the moment he so much as snaps his fingers. “We have ties to the city and couldn’t leave it or our people here alone. We brought some friends with us, helped control rioting in some parts of the Quarter, helped rescue efforts in the southern parishes, did what we could, are still doing what we can to help rebuild.” He stops, sighs, gives Reid a smile. “Doesn’t feel like we did much of anything, but we needed to be here.”

“That’s either incredibly noble or incredibly stupid,” Reid says. 

He’s afraid, for a moment, that Sam will take offence, but he only grins, ducks his head and brushes something off of his sleeve. “Yeah, well. It was probably stupidity. That’s what Dean kept telling me.” 

“Dean?” Reid asks.

About to ask if that’s the name of Sam’s partner, Reid opens his mouth but someone behind him says, “Yo.” 

Sam’s grinning wide and bright, body melting close to boneless, and he says, “You’re late. And this is Spencer Reid. Friend of Ethan’s.” 

A man comes ‘round the table, perches on the arm of Sam’s chair, and Sam’s smile turns silly, helplessly in love. Reid aches, seeing it, feels slightly better when he sees that Dean’s returning it, leaning down to press his lips against Sam’s forehead in some kind of benediction. 

“Yes, I’m late,” Dean says, rolling his eyes as he sits back up. “Couldn’t be helped, though. Kate was.” He stops, shakes his head, and says, “Dude, you _owe_ me.” 

Reid wonders who this ‘Kate’ is but finds himself the target of a hot gaze, full of wary assessment, the next second. Reid wants to shrink back because he’s looked into eyes like that before, knows what sort of madness and danger they can splinter into, but he sees Sam slide a palm up high on Dean’s thigh, feels the loss of Dean’s eyes on his like a balm to the soul. Whatever these two have, it’s dangerous and crazy and intense. He’s not sitting close but even he can feel the heat simmering in the space between the two men. 

“What’ve you two been talking about?” Dean asks, mild now, and when he looks back at Reid, Dean’s calmer, willing to believe whatever it is Sam told him through that one glance. 

“How stupid I am,” Sam says, giving Reid a smile. 

Reid’s not sure how to take that, definitely not sure how Dean will, but he can’t help laughing when Dean says, “Oh, man, a topic I am _well_ acquainted with. You’ll be here all night.” Sam slaps Dean’s leg, shakes his head in resignation when Dean doesn’t do anything more than smile wickedly. 

Ethan’s set finishes and the musician comes over to them, stands next to Reid’s chair. “Dean,” he says, nodding politely at Sam’s partner even though Reid can hear the caution in Ethan’s voice. “Can I borrow Sam for a minute? Paul and I need to ask him a few questions.” 

“Sure,” Dean says, standing up, giving Sam a hand up as well. “Just give ‘im back once you’re done.” 

Reid sees the two partners have a silent conversation, full of meaningful looks, slight changes in eyebrow positions, even more minute differences in shoulders and hands. He watches, eyes wide, and realises that these two, they either have a telepathic connection or they’ve known each other for years. 

He glances at Ethan, who’s watching fondly, and Ethan catches the look, lifts one shoulder in a very Gallic shrug. 

\--

Sam and Ethan go over to the bar and are joined by a man wearing a pair of pressed trousers and a button-up like Sam’s, sleeves rolled out, collar splayed open. Sam sits, Ethan stands next to him, and the other man goes behind the bar. The bartender backs away, stays at the other end; Reid’s curious. 

“Paul manages this place,” Dean says, startling Reid. “And Ethan sets the performance schedule.” 

“So Sam owns the bar,” Reid guesses. Dean nods, sits there with his legs splayed open and his gaze frankly speculative, just watching Reid. “He seems young to own a place like this.” 

Dean snorts. “Sam’s twenty-four,” he says, “and he owns a few places. He’s far more canny than I ever gave him credit for before, I’ll admit that, but he’s got good managers and advisors. That definitely doesn’t hurt.” 

Twenty-four -- that’s young, still, in Reid’s mind, and a few places, he wonders what that means but doesn’t ask. “It’s nice here,” he says instead. He feels uncomfortable, Dean watching him almost without blinking. The quiet jazz piped through hidden speakers should comfort him but it doesn’t. There’s an undertone to something happening here, something he can pick up on but can’t interpret. Hotch would be able to, Reid thinks, and Morgan.

“I saw you with the FBI group,” Dean says, apropos of nothing. Reid tenses, prays his hands aren’t shaking, wants the drugs more than anything now for the sheer confidence they’d give him, liquid courage running through his veins. 

There’s something deadly about Dean that seems muted when Sam’s around, as if Sam settles Dean, draws out the danger and takes it on himself. To think of what type of person would willingly make himself a target for the intensity leaking Reid’s way, it has Reid glancing at Sam, willing to concede that maybe he’s underestimated the man.

“I’m part of the team they sent down,” Reid says, nodding once. “We’re from the BAU. Profilers.”

Dean nods, says, “You caught the woman,” and even Reid can tell it’s a question more than anything. 

“We did,” Reid says. “She was a former med student. There was a, a rape, and everyone thought the killer died during Katrina. She relocated to Galveston and just moved back to the Quarter a few weeks ago.”

“And you’re leaving in the morning,” Dean asks. 

Reid’s not an overly imaginative person. He worries about his mind, about the depths it can plumb and what it might create if he were to let loose, about whether he’ll end up in a place like his mother someday if he doesn’t control himself. Still, despite all of that, he gets shivers seeing Dean’s eyes, the absolute feral willingness to defend territory, like he’s some kind of wolf instead of a man. 

He nods and Dean says, “If you hurt Sam, I will kill you.” 

It takes Reid a moment to parse that, to comprehend the words. This man, he’s threatening an FBI agent the same way he might order a coffee down at Café du Monde. If anyone else was sitting in Reid’s seat, if it was Hotch or Morgan or Prentiss, even J.J., Reid thinks Dean would be given some kind of reaction, anger or amusement or warning. Reid merely stares. 

“Tell me you understand me, Spencer Reid,” Dean says. 

Reid nods, says, “I understand,” feeling Dean’s eyes flay him apart. “We’re leaving in the morning.”

“I hope you have a good flight,” Dean says, standing up. He holds out a hand and as much as Reid wants to curl into a ball, he offers his own, shakes Dean’s, feels warm skin, jagged nails. “It was good to meet you, Reid. And thanks for the help.”

Dean lets go and turns away; Reid exhales for what feels like the first time in minutes. He sees Sam over Dean’s shoulder, listens as the two talk. Their conversation doesn’t make any sense. 

“Brigitte said the Baron needed to visit,” Dean murmurs, one hand reaching out just enough to brush Sam’s arm, as if he needs the reassurance that Sam’s physically _there_. “I was thinking that maybe, afterwards, we could go to Savannah?” 

Sam sighs and Reid watches the play of shadows on Sam’s cheek as his eyelids close and open. “If the Dauphine group can handle things. It’ll be nice to get away.” 

“You miss it as much as I do,” Dean says, and he leans forward, kisses Sam. As he turns to leave, Dean’s grinning; he waves at the bartender, at Paul and Ethan, and gives Reid a mocking salute. “Don’t be out late!” Dean calls out, over his shoulder, and Sam smiles, wide, easy, and utterly besotted. 

\--

Sam brings Reid another snifter of brandy, sets it down on the low table before sitting back in his chair. Ethan goes back up on stage to modest applause and starts playing.

“I’m sorry if Dean said anything to upset you,” Sam says. Reid frowns, doesn’t understand, but Sam nods towards Reid’s hands, shaking again. Reid swallows, can’t keep shame off of his face, but when he works up the courage to look at Sam, he sees something more than pity on Sam’s face. Empathy is written in every line of Sam’s face, that and understanding, compassion. 

“It wasn’t Dean,” Reid admits, looking down at his brandy. “Though I won’t lie. He’s. He’s intense.” 

Sam laughs at that; the noise gives Reid courage to look up. “He can be, yeah. Always has been, but it’s gotten worse the past couple years.” He pauses, as if he’s waiting either for Reid to say something and keep the conversation going or for Reid to look away in hopes of avoiding the inevitable question, but when Reid doesn’t do either, Sam says, “It was Rohypnol for me.”

“Ro,” Reid starts to say, then stops. He’s shocked, can’t honestly believe it. “Rohypnol?” 

“For close to three years,” Sam says, leaning forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “I’m off ‘cause of Dean. What’re you on?” 

The question is so innocuous, feels like an offer of comradeship, more than anything, and with the way that Dean treated him, with the way that Sam is treating him, Reid doesn’t feel as if he has anything to fear, legally or otherwise. He’s off-balance, is beginning to suspect he’s been kept off-balance this entire time. Reid almost admires their technique; they’d fit right in with the BAU. 

“Dilaudid,” Reid says softly. It’s the first time he’s ever admitted it out loud. Doing so makes it feel real, gives the craving inside of him credence, lends weight to the bottles in his satchel. He’s not sure whether he feels better or worse for having said it. 

“That’s a type of morphine, isn’t it?” Sam asks. 

Reid gives Sam a tight smile. “Synthetic opiate,” he says. “Semi-synthetic, really, a hydrogenated ketone.” 

“And you’re a genius,” Sam says, giving Reid’s startled gaze a raised eyebrow of his own. “I met some at Stanford; it’s not an experience that’s easy to forget. So what happened?” Reid doesn’t say anything for a long time. Sam nods, says, “I had headaches,” though he sounds distant, as if he’s half-lying. “The Rohypnol helped, so every time I started feeling, well. I kept taking it. I knew it wasn’t smart, knew it wasn’t really helping, but it worked.” 

Reid takes a sip of his brandy, feels heat sink down his throat, into his belly. “There was a case. It didn’t go well.” 

He stops there and Sam seems to accept that. He sits there for a moment, waves off one of the waitresses who stops by. “And now you’re wondering whether or not you can ever go back, is that it?” 

“Something like that,” Reid says. It’s not exactly the truth, not quite what he’s struggling with but close enough. Sam seems to understand that but he doesn’t offer any other suggestions, so Reid says, “I’m worried I won’t be able to do my job. That I’m, that I’m compromised.”

“That it’ll be too much.” Sam’s words are offered lightly but they strike a resonance deep down near the heart of Reid’s need to find a quiet place to shoot up. “And that no one will be there to help you climb out if you ever decide to. You might want to rethink that, Spencer.” Reid looks up, confused, and Sam nods towards the door. 

Gideon’s standing there, leaning against the doorway, when Reid looks over. 

“You can trust him,” Sam half-states, half-asks. Reid nods. “Then, as an idea, one addict to another, act on it.”

“I thought you said,” Reid begins, stops. 

Sam smiles, stands up and stretches. “It never goes away, not really. Sometimes it’s easier, sometimes the craving sneaks up and digs claws in to you. Talk to him. Give him a chance. He looks worried about you.”

Reid studies Sam, the deceptively casual pose, and asks, “It wasn’t just the Rohypnol, was it.” 

“There’s more to you than your intelligence and your fears, Reid,” Sam replies, giving Reid a soft smile. “Try not to forget that.” 

Sam leaves, running a hand over Reid’s shoulder, and stops to talk to Gideon on his way out. Reid looks down at his brandy, then puts the snifter on the table. He listens to Ethan play, waits for Gideon to walk over, and gathers up the shreds of his courage.


End file.
